


Drunk

by Cyberwulf



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberwulf/pseuds/Cyberwulf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunken brawl on Saint Patrick's Day leads Ireland and England to talk about their relationship in the wake of Ireland's independence. Written for the Axis Powers Hetalia Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk

  
**Summary:** A drunken brawl on Saint Patrick's Day leads Ireland and England to talk about their relationship in the wake of Ireland's independence. Written for the Axis Powers Hetalia Kink Meme.

***

England wasn’t sure how much he’d had to drink – he’d lost track quite a while ago – but he was sure _what_ he’d had to drink. Black stout from St. James’s Gate in Dublin; lager from Dundalk; cider from just outside Clonmel… He was deep into a bottle of whiskey from Cork now – his second, maybe. He tossed off what was left in his glass and poured himself another, letting his head slump back on the table. God, she’d always known how to brew the best stuff…

The bar was almost deserted. Funny – the others he’d been in tonight were utterly heaving with revellers. Just another reminder that it was _her_ day. Which was in turn a reminder that she was no longer with him.

England snuffled and had another drink. The bartender tossed him a filthy look but said nothing. His status as a nation gave him licence to do pretty much whatever he wanted, not to mention enough cash to smooth over any unpleasantness. And right now he wanted to sit in this pub and drink till he forgot about her.

The door opened suddenly, the sound making England jerk his head up. He stared as _she_ entered the bar, copper hair tumbling around a face flushed pink with intoxication, the noise of the crowd outside rising and then dying away as the door swung shut behind her. England watched as she made for the bar, weaving a little, and clambered up on the barstool right next to his table. _Of all the bars in all the world,_ he thought, and couldn’t stop a smirk.

Ireland looked _good_ , that was the worst part. Despite her dire economic problems, there was a silly smile on her face as she let the bartender know who she was (he blanched and muttered something about checking up on his stock). She looked well-fed, but trim - _fit_ \- her green skirt showed off her legs, and the top two buttons of her blouse were open, showing a hint of cleavage. Her slim orange tie had been undone at some point in the evening, and hung loose around her neck.

England waited until Ireland took her first sip of her pint before speaking.

“You look like a bloody schoolgirl.”

Ireland nearly spilled her drink. “Jesus Christ!” She turned to look at him, one hand on her chest. “You frightened the life out of me!”

England ignored her. He idly rubbed the hem of her skirt between his finger and thumb, thinking about the smooth, pale skin underneath. “Suits you actually.”

He hated the wariness in her voice as she answered, “Oh – thanks,” and turned back to the bar.

“Won’t have a drink with me?”

Shit, that came out bitter. It was meant to be an invitation.

“No.”

England propped himself up on his elbow and shot her a sulky glare.

“Not even today, on your great festival of drinking?”

Ireland’s shoulders slumped and she let out an angry sigh. England began to feel indignant.

“Oh – don’t get like that – you take every little thing personally,” he snapped. “Jus’ – just come over here and sit down, for God’s sake…” Ireland gave a quiet growl of irritation. England flung his arms out in exasperation. “Am I really so horrible?”

Ireland turned around, her face set in an angry glare.

“Since you’re looking for a row, _yes_ , you are that horrible,” she snapped. “ _Typical_.” She finished her drink and got down from her stool. “Can’t stand that you can’t push me around any more.” England leaned back as Ireland bent down and got in his face. “Can’t stand that I threw you out.”

The bartender rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Hey!”

“Don’t worry, I’m _going_.” Ireland straightened up and made for the door.

Her words stung, bringing back the humiliating memory of being locked out in his underwear, Ireland gloating from the top window while Ulster cried, Wales gawked and Scotland nearly pissed himself with laughter. England blushed angrily. Damn it, he was sick of everyone painting him as the bad guy.

“You know, you weren’t exactly a saint, _darling_.”

Ireland stopped in her tracks and turned around.

“What the hell do you want?” she asked in exasperation. “You want me to admit I wasn’t an innocent victim? Fine, I set your bed on fire while you were in it, but you wouldn’t fucking leave! What was I supposed to do?”

It was a cliché, but God, she was beautiful when she was angry. Strong and proud and fierce, eyes ablaze with fury. England wanted more.

“You could’ve tried _talking_ , you fat barbarian bitch.”

She seemed to swell with rage, fists clenching, face like thunder…and then suddenly the storm clouds parted, and to England’s disappointment she relaxed again.

“No,” Ireland declared. “I’m not fighting with you. Not tonight of all nights.” She turned on her heel, then paused to wiggle her arse at him. “ _Póg mo thóin, táim ag dul abhaile._ ”

England poured himself another glass of whiskey as he watched her head for the door. He waited till she was halfway there before announcing, “Better go too. Ulster’ll be waiting with my supper.”

_That_ stopped her. The fact that the confused, not-quite-nation called Northern Ireland had _chosen_ to live with England nearly a century ago was still a sore spot with Ireland, and right now England felt like poking it as much as possible. He smirked as she turned and approached his table again.

“Oh, I’m afraid you’ll be getting your own supper tonight,” Ireland retorted with a smirk. “Northern Ireland was with me today.” She placed her hands on his table and leaned into him. “Singing an’ all. _Low, lie, the fields, of Athenry…_ ”

England threw his drink in her face.

The punch to his nose was as fierce as a kiss, it knocked him out of his chair and she grabbed his lapels and followed him down. God, she hit like a man, they’d fought so many times and he missed it so much, it exhilarated him. Those last few battles in the early twentieth century, when she started ambushing him in the middle of the night or after his bath, were so pitched and bloody that at times he really thought she was going to kill him…and the high was incredible. They rolled around the sticky pub floor, trading blows. He’d held back once, because she was a girl, and she’d laughed in his face and hoofed him in the bollocks. He hadn’t made that mistake again.

“Right – out!”

Suddenly they were pulled apart and England found himself on the street in the cold night air. A moment later Ireland was chucked out beside him. She stared angrily as the door was shut in her face, then whirled around and shoved him.

“Fuck you!” Ireland roared. England stumbled but managed to recover his footing. He stared at her as she continued to rage, flecks of spit hitting him in the face. “I wanted _one_ Saint Patrick’s Day where I didn’t make a holy show of myself, but you couldn’t let me have that, could you? Why can’t you fuck off and leave me alone?”

She turned to leave, almost falling off the footpath. England swallowed. Suddenly all the pleasure he got from seeing her angry evaporated, and he realised he’d cocked things up again.

“Ireland, wait!”

He hadn’t expected her to stop and turn around, but she did.

“What is it?” Ireland demanded. “What do you want now?!”

“I want you back,” England blurted out.

He expected her to snap at him, but instead she just stared.

“…what?”

The weight of the last ninety-odd years without her came crashing down on him, and he sat down heavily on the curb.

“I want you back,” England repeated. He didn’t look at her, and reached into his jacket for his emergency flask. He heard her shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Yeah, to cook and clean and wipe your arse for you,” Ireland said, but there was no real anger in her words.

“No,” England insisted. He looked up at her. All the fights, the arguments, the petty, cruel things he’d done to her, he regretted them all. “It’d be different this time, I promise.” His gaze drifted down to her legs – he couldn’t help it. “I’d treat you right.”

Ireland sighed and cupped her forehead with one hand, tucking her other into her armpit. “Jesus _Christ_.” She looked at him. “Are you for _real_? You made my life a living hell –”

“I’m sorry.”

Ireland stared at him as if he’d just grabbed France and snogged the face off him.

“…sorry?” She stared at him suspiciously. “Sorry for what?”

“For everything,” England said miserably. He had another swig from his flask, the alcohol burning a warm trail to his stomach. “Wasn’t supposed to be that way.” He looked up at her. “If I’d known…I’d – I’d have done it differently.”

Ireland folded her arms, but she didn’t look angry any more.

“Come on, you’re not really sorry,” she said.

England glared at her, offended that she doubted him. “I _am_.”

“Ah go ’way, that’s only the drink talking,” Ireland snorted. “You had ninety years to apologise. Why now?”

“I don’t bloody know!” England answered, flinging his arms out. “I just…” He shrugged. “It’s hard, that’s all. First America, then you…” He folded his arms on his knees and put his head on them. “Everyone I love always leaves.”

Ireland shook her head.

“You’re a miserable auld drunk, you know that?” she said, but there was a gentleness to her tone, and a moment later she sat down beside him. “Come on, what’s this about?”

“I don’t know,” England repeated miserably. “It’s just – when I see you at the meetings with your own seat and your…flag and…talking to them and…” He shrugged again. If he wasn’t so drunk, maybe he could better explain how much it hurt to see his oldest colony making her way without him. Her economic crisis had filled him with a mean, savage happiness that he’d only enjoyed for a few seconds before it turned his stomach sour. Things had gotten more and more civil between them as they entered the twenty-first century, and everybody thought it was all fine and nobody knew or cared how much he was still hurting inside.

“I wish you could still give me the cold shoulder,” he mumbled into his knees. “And I wish you could still give me a hard time. And I wish I could still wish it was over…”

“That’s The Script.”

England looked up. “Eh?”

“ _I’ll leave the door on the latch if you ever come back, if you ever come back_ ,” Ireland sang patiently. “ _There’ll be a light in the hall and a key under the mat if you ever come back. There’ll be a smile on my face and the kettle on…_ ”

England began to cry.

“Ah now,” Ireland murmured, and he felt her hand on his back. “Look, don’t stir, I’ll be back in a minute.”

She got up and walked away. England indulged in a few more sobs, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He’d just finished snuffling when Ireland sat down beside him again.

“Now.” She took his flask out of his hand and replaced it with a warm, greasy paper bag. “Eat up them fuckin’ chips, it’ll make this easier on you.”

England looked at her suspiciously, but between the cold and the booze and his crying jag, a bag of chips did sound good. He did as he was told – just the right amount of salt and vinegar – and watched as Ireland had a mouthful from his flask.

“Look, _Sasana_ -” the word sounded so much gentler than Scotland’s derisive “Sassenach” – “I know why it’s hard for you to look at America now, all grown up and the world’s only superpower.” Ireland patted him on the back. “He followed you everywhere, he wanted to be just like you, and then he threw you out. It’s upsetting. I understand.”

The hand on his back moved up to the side of his head, and Ireland pulled him towards her, until their foreheads were touching.

“We were never like that,” she said slowly, clenching her fingers in his hair tightly enough to hurt. “ _Never_.”

She let him go, but didn’t get up. England had another chip.

“I wanted us to be,” he mumbled.

“Aaah,” Ireland drawled, nodding. “So _that’s_ why you made me live in the scullery and didn’t let me go to Mass.”

England shrugged, a warm blush flooding over his cheeks.

“ _That’s_ why you took over the farm and only left me the potato patch.”

“Fine, fine!” England snapped. “I’m a horrible bastard and there was nothing good about our time together, nothing at all, I just made you suffer every day for seven hundred years –”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Ireland exploded. “I didn’t say –”

“That’s what you wrote in all your history books, isn’t it?” England fired back.

Ireland fumed silently for a few minutes.

“Okay,” she growled at last. “You want me to say it wasn’t as bad as I made it out to be? Fine.” She glowered at him. “It was _still bad_.”

England felt in need of some more chips.

“Come on, why do you want me back?” Ireland asked. “I was miserable. I made it my business to make you miserable. I know at the end you were only holding on for the North.” She looked away and ran her hand over her face. “Jesus Christ, what we did to that poor child.”

England hung his head. He’d been so happy in the beginning – spitefully so – that Ulster had chosen to live with him instead of with Ireland that he’d been blind to the province’s severe emotional problems. It was only when he came home to find Northern Ireland rolling around in the driveway fighting himself that he realised what was going on, and by then it was too late. A part of him still resented the fact that he’d borne the brunt of every temper tantrum since then, while the Republic had escaped the North’s rages almost unscathed.

“Just miss you,” England hiccupped finally, with a shrug. He looked up at her, feeling hurt. “I can’t miss you?”

Ireland gave a snort of laughter. “What do you miss? Me fighting with you all the time?”

England blushed and looked away quickly.

“You do, don’t you?” England cringed at the mocking tone in Ireland’s voice. “You dirty fucker.”

“Don’t – don’t laugh at me, you bitch!” England snapped, ashamed of the tears springing to his eyes. “I can’t help it!” He turned away and dragged his sleeve across his face. “You were my first.”

Ireland didn’t say anything, and England felt himself blushing. He drew in a deep, shaky breath and let it out. They’d been so young back then, both barely out of their warring tribes phase. He’d fallen in love with her, and had wanted her for his wife…and for a while they were both content to play house. And then a certain _kraut_ had to go and invent Protestantism, and everything went to hell. The fights got worse as they got older, and every time he defeated her she just got angrier. That was what hurt the most. He loved her – he still loved her – and he’d made her hate him.

He realised suddenly that Ireland had asked him a question, but he couldn’t remember what it was. It didn’t matter anyway. He had to tell her – no, he had to show her –

“Let me take you to bed,” England begged, reaching for her. His clumsy fingers twisted in her shirtsleeves. “Let me show you I’m not a brute...”

Ireland was shaking her head. “No…no.” Gently she took his wrists and pulled his hands away from her, placing them back on his knees.

England hung his head. “Then you still hate me.”

He stared at his shoes, listening as she stood up and moved away.

“C’mere.”

England looked around. Ireland was sitting in a nearby doorway, leaning her head against the frame. She beckoned him over.

“C’mere to me,” she repeated, patting her chest.

England crawled over on his hands and knees. He hesitated when he got close, and Ireland guided his head down on her bosom.

“What’s this?” he mumbled.

“This is the great Saint Patrick’s Day tradition of Going Asleep Somewhere,” Ireland explained. “I think Russia calls it Tuesday. Have you heard of it?”

England smirked. “Yeah.” Under the strong scent of booze, Ireland smelled like rich, freshly-ploughed soil, with a hint of the sea. He turned his head to the side, resisting the urge to bury his face between her breasts. It was something he’d always regretted, never making love to her. They were too young for it when things were good, and when things were bad…a crueller nation might have forced her, but it was her love he’d wanted, not her body.

“You know what your problem is?”

“What?” England asked. Ireland was running her fingers through his hair. It felt nice.

“You miss all your fucking holiday homes,” Ireland answered. “If I had to live in that kip with seven other people I’d go stone mad.”

England snickered.

“You might have a point,” he admitted. “Hey…”

“Hmm?”

“Was Northern Ireland really out with you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Ireland replied. “I saw him home.” She chuckled. “He’ll be sick in the morning, though.” She tilted England’s head up so that she could look at him, and England was struck by her serious expression. “Mind him for me?”

England nodded. “Always.”

“I know you will.” Ireland hesitated, then continued. “I know…” England was horrified to feel her chest hitch. “…I know he’s happy where he is.”

England’s face burned, and he looked away. He knew Ireland doted on the lad as much as he did, and in spite of everything she’d be sad if he disappeared. But that didn’t change the fact that the North had been part of her, truly part of her – not a colony that would inevitably go his own way, no matter how much attention and love was lavished on him. He felt for her hand and brushed a kiss against her knuckles.

“Sing to me?”

Ireland was running her fingers through his hair again. “Only if you say it.”

England sighed. “You are the finest singer in the European Broadcasting Union.”

Ireland made a little noise of contentment.

_“There’s a still in the street outside your window_

_And you’re keeping secrets on your pillow…”_

England laced his fingers through hers. He’d known her for millennia, and he didn’t think they’d ever shared a moment like this. She was so warm and soft underneath him. He could hear her heart beating, he could sense her fields and beaches and rivers and all the secret places that still pulsed with ancient magic. Thoughts of what might have been pricked at his eyes and clogged up his throat.

_“…and we’re caught in the crossfire of heaven and hell…”_

He didn’t know what made the memory come to him. It was years earlier, during the war – he was in the mid-Atlantic, clinging to a ship that was slowly sinking, desperately sending out a distress call, half his men in lifeboats. And then Ireland came over the horizon, in a tiny merchant ship – no escort, nothing to protect her except neutral markings that Germany often ignored, and brought them all aboard.

“You’re my brother,” she explained, when he asked her why. “Just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean I want anything _bad_ to happen you.”

He scolded her for not travelling with a convoy. He never told her how brave she was.

_“Lay your body down, lay your body down, lay your body down…”_

The booze was finally getting to him. England let his heavy eyes drift shut. Distantly he felt Ireland slip something into his back pocket.

_“Next to mine…”_

 

 

England came to with a groan. His head was pounding. He risked opening his eyes a crack, and groaned in relief when he saw that the curtains were still drawn. England buried his head under the duvet. He had no idea how he’d gotten home, and he didn’t care. He was bloody well hung over, and he was spending the day in bed.

He had just closed his eyes when the sound of someone running down the landing made him wince. The bathroom door banged open, followed by the sounds of retching.

“Did you enjoy gettin’ intae that state?”

England closed his eyes in pain. The concept of an “indoor voice” was and had always been utterly lost on Scotland. He rolled onto his back and rubbed at his forehead, trying to massage away the throbbing.

He heard Northern Ireland mumble unhappily.

_Oh._

England heaved a sigh and gingerly got out of bed. He stepped into last night’s trousers and shuffled out of the bedroom.

Scotland was standing in the bathroom doorway, naked except for a pink fluffy towel wrapped around his lower half. He was slurping tea through his ginger beard, an amused look on his face.

“That’s bloody revoltin’,” he quipped as Northern Ireland heaved again. England gently shouldered him aside.

“Leave the lad alone,” England murmured. “He’s suffered enough without you being a smart arse. And for God’s sake stop shouting.”

“Oh, you’re up and aboot, are you?” Scotland remarked in mock surprise. He gestured at Northern Ireland with his mug. “Where were you last night when this one was fillin’ his belly wi’ drink?”

England bit back a sarcastic remark about how Scotland had left it a little late to play concerned father. He had to take care of Northern Ireland, and there was no time for stupid arguments with his older brother – especially when he was hung over. He went to the sink and wet a washcloth.

“Make yourself useful and fetch him a glass of water, will you?” England said, trying to keep his tone as level as possible.

Scotland swallowed a big gulp of tea.

“He wants a wee dram of whisky, that’ll sort him oot.” He turned and padded downstairs. England had no idea if Scotland was going to come back with water, but he didn’t care – the main thing was that he wasn’t standing in the doorway making comments any more. England crouched next to Northern Ireland and waited for him to finish being sick.

“There, there.” He pressed the damp washcloth against the teenager’s forehead. Northern Ireland leaned back into him with a moan. “It’s all right. The first time’s always the worst.”

“I’m never drinking again, so I’m not,” the North mumbled miserably.

England smiled at him gently. _Oh yes you will, son. It’s in your blood._ He continued to dab Northern Ireland’s face with the washcloth, sponging traces of puke out of the scrappy copper hairs on his chin.

A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. Wales stood in the doorway in his dressing gown, looking rather green under the permanent dusting of soot on his face. He approached and offered England a glass of water.

“Come on, lad, drink this up.” England helped Northern Ireland curl his fingers around the glass. “Little sips. A few hours in bed and you’ll be right as rain.”

Northern Ireland looked like he would cry.

“I was sick in my bed,” he moaned.

“Well, you can get in my bed,” England told him. He looked at Wales apologetically. “Do you mind…?”

Wales looked a little queasy, but heaved a sigh.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll get Scotland to give me a hand. He’s far too ruddy cheerful this morning.” He turned and went downstairs.

Once Northern Ireland had finished his water, England helped him onto his feet and shepherded him into his bedroom. Northern Ireland crawled under the covers, burying his head under a pillow.

England ran a hand through his hair. He could do with sleeping off his own hangover, and there was just about room for both of them in the bed. He slipped off his trousers and tossed them over a chair. Something slipped out of the back pocket, and he bent to pick it up.

A four-leafed clover.

England smiled and set it carefully on the nightstand.

He slid under the duvet. Northern Ireland curled into him, all gangly limbs and red hair. Nearly as tall as England now, but still the baby. Still – always – _their_ baby.

England placed a kiss on the top of the boy’s head, and closed his eyes.


End file.
